Beyond Repair
by Mummyluvr
Summary: Was he so broken that he couldn't be fixed?  Dean used to think so, until he met up again with the one person who actually wanted to help, even if she did have a gun trained on his brother's head.  One shot.  Better summary inside, I swear!


This idea kept me up for three hours the other night, so I had to write it. One of the most angsty things (in my opinion) I've written to date. I actually cried at a couple of points. Please review. I like to know what people think :)

**Title:** Beyond Repair

**Summary:** Was he so broken that he couldn't be fixed? Dean didn't used to think so, even though no one tried to help him. They all left. One face from the past kept coming back to him, though, someone who was nice and actually wanted to help fix him. He thought she was a dream, until he met up with her again under less-than-normal circumstances. One-shot.

**Rating: **K for lack of language and violence

**Warnings: **None

**Disclaimer:** If only I owned this show... but I don't, so i can't say that i do. It's Kripke's baby and the CW's most hated offspring :D

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**Beyond Repair**

February 1, 1985

The house was quiet. The kids were asleep. Her husband was waiting for her. That wasn't enough, though. Something was telling her to go check on the children one last time before turning in, to make sure that everything was all right. If anything happened to them, she knew, John would kill her. That would, undoubtedly, lead to Bill murdering John, and they couldn't have that.

With a sigh, Ellen Harvelle headed up the stairs in her modest house to check on the boys, who were sleeping in separate bedrooms for the first time since the fire that took their mother. She passed the door to the guest room Sam was staying in first, peeking in at the toddler and smiling as she saw his dark mess of hair sticking out from beneath the covers.

She headed toward Dean's room next, glancing in as she passed, certain that the older boy would be fast asleep. What she saw made her heart skip a beat. He was sitting up straight in bed, his eyes wide, skin pale, hair and shirt and sheets wet with sweat.

As soon as her heart started beating again and the shock of seeing him like that wore off, Ellen nudged the door open and stepped into the room. "Dean, what are you doing up?"

His eyes grew even wider, if that was possible, and she saw fear in them. "I'm sorry. I'll go back to sleep."

"Well, wait. What's wrong?" She had crossed the room and sat down beside him on the bed.

He looked up at her. "I had a nightmare," he whispered, "but it's ok. Daddy says I shouldn't be scared of the stuff in my head. It's the real stuff that's scary. The fake stuff can't hurt me. He tells me to go back to sleep."

She ran a hand softly through the six-year-old's damp hair. "What are you talking about, honey?"

He averted his eyes, watching his pale hands clutch at the sheets. "I wake up and I want to… I want him to make it better like he used to, but he won't. He says I need to be brave. He says I can't be scared any more. He tells me to go back to bed."

She sighed. "Well, would you like it if I sat here with you until you fall back to sleep?"

He turned his head so suddenly she was afraid he might have hurt himself. "Why?" he asked, chewing on his lower lip and staring up at her with hope shining in his eyes.

"Because I don't want you to be scared. You're safe here."

Smiling, the boy sank back under the covers and let himself relax. "Thanks, lady."

Ellen grinned. "No problem. So, what did you dream about?"

Dean closed his eyes. "I was broken and nobody wanted to fix me. I wanted them too, but I couldn't ask. Like I couldn't talk. And they all left. Sammy and mommy and daddy and a bunch of people. Nobody wanted to help."

"Well, it was only a dream," she comforted, brushing his hair away from his forehead, "and your family loves you too much to leave like that. Everything's gonna be all right."

He nodded, drifting slowly off to sleep. She didn't know how long she sat there, with her hand brushing his hair back, trying to provide whatever comfort she could, but it must have been longer than she thought. A soft knock on the door caught her attention and she turned to see Bill standing in the doorway.

"You coming to bed?" he asked.

Ellen nodded, looking down and Dean to make sure he was really asleep. "Yeah. Sorry it took so long. Nightmare."

Bill grinned. "Well, you're gonna need the practice," he said, glancing at her swollen belly, 'after all, it won't be long before little Joseph makes his grand entrance."

"Or little JoAnna," Ellen added, slipping quietly off the bed and heading out of the room.

"You're leaving?" It was barely more than a whisper, but she heard it clearly enough and turned to see Dean sitting up again, a look of betrayal on his face.

"I thought you were asleep," she explained, feeling suddenly guilty, wanting to defend herself to the obviously hurt little boy.

"It's ok," he said softly, looking down at his hands again, "I understand. You need to sleep."

She swallowed hard, looking at Bill before turning back to the boy with the haunted eyes. "It's ok," Bill whispered, "practice makes perfect." He winked and headed back down the hall to the room that they shared.

"Looks like you got me for the night," Ellen smiled, crossing the room to the bed, surprised to see the boy scooting over to make room for her.

"You still need to sleep," he whispered.

"So do you," she pointed out, sliding in under the covers and wondering if this was what parenthood was really like, late nights with scared little kids curled up so close to your body that you could feel them shaking as they sobbed quietly, wanting to help but not knowing quite how.

"I don't want to be scared anymore," Dean breathed, leaning into her, searching for warmth and kindness and love, "just for tonight."

Realizing suddenly that the shaking and the sobs had nothing to do with whatever nightmares plagued the boy's sleep, she wrapped and arm around him, making a mental note to tell John about his oldest son's problems, even though she knew the hunter wouldn't listen.

December 22, 2007

He wasn't entirely sure why he was there, sitting on the hood of his car as the light snow swirled around him, wrapping him in a blanket of shimmering frosted crystals. He didn't know why he kept coming back, why she kept letting him. He only knew that he liked it, that she was the only one who'd really stuck by him, the only one who'd stayed nice.

So many people had entered his life wearing kind smiles and offering to take his hand. His mom. His dad. Sam. Cassie. Jim. Bobby. Gordon. Jo. Nameless people from nameless towns they hadn't even spent a month in. He'd trusted them. He'd let them in. He'd asked for help. They'd walked away. All of them.

He'd been happy before the fire, had a home and been safe and loved. Nothing could have gone wrong. And then she burned and he was promoted from big brother to parent while his father chased down demons, both literal and figurative.

All his life, Dean had believed that his mother loved him, that, if given the chance, she would come back and be with him again. She'd hold him in her arms and chase away all the pain and heartache. She would fix him with a simple touch, make him whole again, make him human.

And then he'd seen her, close enough that she could have reached out and touched him and fixed him and everything would have been better. He really couldn't blame her for walking by. For choosing Sam. After all, Sam had never met her. And Sam wasn't broken.

It was at that moment that Dean realized he was beyond help, that no one could love him. He was beyond repair. Both of his parents had proven that.

He'd tried everything to make his father happy, make him smile, make him laugh. He'd tried everything to make John love him again. Nothing worked. He wasn't fast enough or strong enough or smart enough or good enough. There was something wrong with him, something that made him bad in his father's eyes.

He tried to fix the individual problems, but the biggest one remained. He was broken. He was broken and his father couldn't fix him. John just added to the problem, telling him to be better. He wasn't his father's son anymore. He was his father's soldier, and he wasn't good enough to be promoted.

John would never leave, though. He valued his soldier too much to lose him. At least, that's what Dean told himself to calm the nightmares that had plagued him since childhood; that, while he wasn't loved, he _was_ valued.

And then his father stopped answering his phone. It took Dean so long to find his dad, and even then it was only because he'd mentioned the demon in a voice message. It had nothing to do with him.

They found each other again and stuck together not too long after that, and he thought, stupidly, that things would go back to the way they were supposed to be. He thought that they would stay with him, that the nightmares would finally stop.

His father sold his soul. He did it to bring Dean back, which was noble. He told Dean to kill his brother. He sold his soul so he wouldn't have to kill his favorite son, the one who wasn't broken, the one who didn't need constant attention and care and love. Sammy didn't need to be fixed.

John had given him a look in that graveyard. It was one of joy, of understanding, of hope. He'd just realized that his broken boy was heading straight to Hell in a year and he wouldn't be there with him. It was perfect. John wouldn't have to spend eternity trying to fix him. Yippee.

Sam would have said that was a lie, but Sam didn't know. He hadn't seen his father's eyes. Besides, Sam couldn't really be trusted.

They had been kids when he'd idolized his brother, back before Dean had realized that he was broken and different and wrong. He had felt like a person when he was with Sam, even though he had to act as a parent. Sammy needed him, loved him, wanted him.

And then Sammy grew up. He turned into Sam. Sam didn't need his older brother, didn't want him, didn't even pretend to love him. He just wanted to be normal, and Dean wasn't normal. Dean was broken.

Sam left. Dean found him. Jess burned. Sam stayed. Dean felt himself starting to come back, felt the nightmares slipping away, felt needed again. It took a few months, but he finally got up the nerve to ask for help without really asking.

He just wanted to feel that way for the rest of his life, like someone wanted him. Maybe enough time living with that feeling and he would start to mend himself, without outside help. He revealed his secret wishes to his brother, the want of family, and Sam shot him down. Actually said that he didn't want that.

He might as well have said he didn't want Dean. Of course, the older man had been through that before, the younger's want of something normal and safe and whole. Something not broken.

Sam ran away. He said he didn't want to hurt his brother, but that's exactly what he did. He ran away again, and this time hurt Dean worse. And then he died and Dean was broken and he did something stupid that he would do again in a heartbeat if given the chance. Because Sam could live a life and be normal. Dean would only be broken.

He'd tried to be normal once, though, to have a relationship. She'd loved him. She'd wanted him. She'd needed him. He told her everything about himself, from what he did to how he needed help to fix himself. She dumped him.

He'd understood completely. He wanted to dump himself sometimes, to just walk away and never go back. To leave the pain and the heartache and be free. To not be broken. To be like everyone else.

She'd called him back, but it wasn't the same. He couldn't trust her. He couldn't trust a lot of people.

His father had once told him that he could trust priests. That some of them knew what was out there. That they could help. He'd trusted Jim Murphy, had told him everything, had hoped for help, for the adult to pick up the pieces and put them back together into something that resembled the happy kid Dean had once been.

Jim had told him that you can't fix people, not like you fix a toy. Then he'd said that Dean wasn't broken, just misguided. Dean had left the church and avoided the pastor for the next two years. He didn't want Jim to rub it in his face, to bring it back up and deepen the old wound that rejection had made.

He hadn't been very old when he'd turned to his father's other close friend for help. Bobby Singer was a force to be reckoned with. He was tough, and gruff, and wasn't afraid to speak his mind. He swore. He drank. He was someone Dean's mother wouldn't want him associating with, not at the ripe old age of eight.

But Dean saw possibilities. He saw a house with a dog. Saw a man with strong arms and a steady job and an extra bed. He saw someone who had offered to take care of Sammy when John started training his oldest son. He saw something he wanted, someone who could repair the damage already done and prevent any further abuse.

He'd asked the question over dinner one night. He was staying at Bobby's while John was with Sammy, who had come down with a particularly nasty case of chicken pox, at the hospital.

He should have known better, should have known to keep his mouth shut, that no good could come of asking. He'd grown to trust the imposing adult, though, liked the way that Bobby looked at him and winked and smiled. He liked the way that extra bed was soft and warm and welcoming. He liked it all.

He asked if he could stay, and Bobby had laughed. Once he'd stopped, he wanted to know if Dean was serious. He'd then explained that John needed Dean just as much as Dean needed John, and the boy felt something inside him shatter.

He'd had hope, had imagined possibilities. Ever since the idea had popped into his head to ask if he could stay, he'd had a home.

The next day, when John came back from the hospital, something else inside of him broke. He overheard Bobby asking his dad to keep away for a couple of months. Maybe he wouldn't mind not bringing Dean by as often. Maybe that was best.

Dean lost a father-figure that day. It was the first time, but it certainly wouldn't be the last. He'd been flailing blindly after his father's death, and had latched onto the first kind face he'd seen. That face had belonged to Gordon Walker.

Gordon had understood. He'd lost family. He'd known John. He'd let Dean in, had sympathized, had gotten the younger man's hopes up yet again. Dean gave in to the smile, into the warmth of having someone know what it was like. He knew that Gordon could help fix him.

The older man was a psychopath. He was a traitor. He was sadistic. He left Dean more broken than he'd been before. Left his faith in anyone who was kind to him shaken. Made him remember that everyone, even those who seemed to want him, walked away.

He'd met a pretty blonde girl once. Her name was Jo. She was six years his junior, but the way she looked at him made him hungry for her. She wanted him, actually _wanted_ him, and looked as though she would be willing to do anything to get him. He liked that.

She followed him around. She backed him into dark corners. She made him let her stay on a hunt. He loved the attention, wallowed in it, wanted more. Somebody wanted him, even if it was just for his looks. Maybe, if she actually fell in love with him, he could tell her… but not until then. Not until he was sure.

Naturally, it didn't take long for everything to collapse, his perfect plan ruined. She may have been mad at his father, but he knew deep down that the revelation had opened her eyes to the truth. She was forced to look at what John Winchester had down, and, consequently, what Dean Winchester was. He was broken. She didn't want that. She wanted strong and handsome and fearless.

He'd thought she could help, just like all the other people he met in tiny towns. He would find a kind old neighbor or a sympathetic teacher and inch steadily closer until he was always there, begging for acceptance and love and strength and hope and warmth and comfort and everything he believed necessary to fix himself. It would have worked, too, if he hadn't had to move all the time.

It hadn't taken Dean too long to figure out that if he wanted to get better, to not be broken anymore, he'd have to do it himself. The only problem was that he couldn't. Having to go it alone meant that the nightmare was true.

There was one thing that had given him hope over the years, and that was a memory. It was vague and dusty, but he treasured it more than he treasured his life. Someone had been nice, had cared, had told him that he wasn't alone. She'd meant it. He remembered her face, her voice, her warm hand on his cool head, the way she'd given up time with her husband to stay with him. She had actively tried to fix the broken boy. She hadn't left. _He_ had.

He'd wanted to go find her. He'd known somehow that she wasn't like the others, that she wouldn't leave. He'd seen something in her eyes, something more than understanding and kindness and sympathy. He'd seen the want to help. If he had known her name, he would have looked for her, but he wasn't even sure if she was real anymore, or just a blessed good dream in a sea of horrible nightmares.

And then his father had died. Sam had cracked his voicemail code. Dean had heard a voice, tinny from bad reception. It had stirred a memory, the memory of kindness that never ended. Suddenly, he had to know. He had to know if it was real.

They broke in and he got hurt and then he saw her. She'd looked older, tougher, but it was still her. She was holding a gun to his little brother's head.

And then the moment that nearly broke him. _She remembered._ She knew him. He hadn't just been some nameless kid passing through. She remembered.

His high spirits didn't last, though. He found out what happened to Bill, and any thoughts of telling her that he remembered, of thanking her for her kindness, of asking her to help him were wiped from his mind. Her husband was dead, and Dean had taken her from him for a night. If it hadn't been for him, she would have had another night with the man she loved. If she realized that- as she surely would- she would do what everyone else had done. She would throw him out.

He played it cool. He didn't tell her. He told himself it was for the best, and things were fine. Then Jo followed him to Pennsylvania and things spiraled. As long as Ellen didn't know that he remembered, Dean had been safe. He could go to the Roadhouse whenever he wanted and just be close to the only person who'd ever shown him kindness without dashing any hopes for more. Then Jo got kidnapped.

It was an awkward car ride back to Nebraska, with Dean wishing desperately for a do-over. There was no doubt in his mind that he was gonna get yelled at, get hurt again, get kicked out of the bar and away from the warmth that he wished he could find there.

He stayed away after that. He didn't want to get yelled at again, get laughed at, get disappointed. When Sam disappeared, though, he didn't give calling her a second thought. Where else was Sammy going to go, anyway?

When she answered the phone a didn't hang up, he was surprised. When she called him back, he was elated. When Sam told Dean what Ellen had said when he'd shown up at the saloon, he was even happier. She wasn't mad. He could go back.

She'd tried to help him find Sam when the younger man was possessed. She'd actually comforted him over the phone. It was the kind of thing he'd been waiting for her to do since he'd found her again. Just an act of random kindness that meant so much more.

They didn't talk for a couple of months, but he couldn't wait to get back to the Roadhouse. He was almost certain that if he told her it would be like before. Like when he was a kid. Maybe she would be the one to fix him.

The Roadhouse blew up. He looked for her among the charred rubble and twisted bodies. He felt hope rising up within him when he didn't see her. He wanted her to be safe so badly, wanted her to be safe so that he could feel safe. It was selfish, he knew, but he couldn't help it. He was tired of being broken.

She wrapped her arms around him in the salvage yard, and he returned the hug, desperate for the warmth, for the kindness, for the love. He'd been dreaming of it since he was six, yearning for it most of his life. Everything he'd hoped for, he had at that moment. He could die. At the end of the year, he could die, because he'd gotten what he wanted.

Dean wasn't really sure why he was there. He should have been able to die happy. He had, after all, felt the proof that someone cared about him wrap around him al those months ago. He shouldn't have been there.

He stopped by regularly. She'd given him her address and phone number after the Devil's Gate had been opened. Just in case.

He stopped by a lot, though mostly he just parked up the street and stared at the house, too scared to walk up to it and knock and go in. Too scared that he would ruin what he'd lucked into. Too scared that she'd see that he wasn't that adorable six-year-old anymore, but something harder and colder and broken. Something that no one could fix.

But this time was different. He could tell. His time was running out. Sam was coming up empty-handed. He would never really be happy until he had what he truly wanted. He would never really be able to let himself go until he knew for sure that it wasn't dumb luck that had given him this much.

Slowly, Dean slid off the hood of his car and walked through the flurrying snow towards the house. Even though it was fairly late, there were still lights on inside, meaning that she was up. He gulped back his fear as he approached the door and rung the bell.

In the minute that it took her to get to the door, he almost chickened out, almost ran away, almost let it be. Why torture himself? Why remind himself after over a year of thinking that he was fixable that he wasn't? Why just drive home the fact that he was broken? Did he really want this cherished childhood memory that he'd clung to so tightly for so long to be tarnished with rejection?

And then the door opened and he saw her standing there in her nightgown, staring at him first with confusion, then with shock. "Dean?" she asked, eyes darting over him, "what is it? What's wrong? You're covered in snow."

"Please," he whispered, his voice shaking with a mixture of fear and cold, "I don't want to be scared anymore. Just for tonight."

Ellen's eyes went wide, and for a moment he thought she would slam the door and lock him out. Instead, she stepped aside and let him in, let him into the warmth and safety and comfort and love that he'd longed for since childhood. For the first time in a long time, Dean felt like he wasn't beyond repair.

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That was it. So, what do you think? Please review. 


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